


we should know by now

by skylights



Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gen Work, and by productive i mean i wrote fic instead of compiling databases, productive day at work yes, welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have no bodies to mourn. Perhaps it's better this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we should know by now

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [时至今日](https://archiveofourown.org/works/966636) by [baysian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baysian/pseuds/baysian)



Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
   
   
"You're an echo," Herc says to the shade that used to be his son and Chuck can only shrug, a resigned sort of lift to his shoulders that has Herc make an aborted movement to clasp his hands against the downward curve of Chuck's neck. The memory of Chuck has the gall to look disappointed.

"I'm whatever you want me to be."

Anything but alive and breathing, a warm body, of course. Then again, Herc isn't the kind to think about begging and choosing and what-the-fuck-ever shitass metaphor that's threatening to overwhelm his life most days, so Herc shuts his mouth like he always does. Says nothing, with his arms limp by where they've fallen at his side.

"Aren't you glad to see me, old man?" Chuck cajoles, an easy smile on his face. "Come on, say something. What do you even keep coming back for?"

To see you. To remember, because when the drift ends, real life is too bright and I can't remember how your shadow even looks like any longer.

Herc wants to say all this and more, but this is his boy, his Chuck with sun-bleached hair, mouth still shaped in the hardest of lines, and even in death, Herc doesn't have it in him to tell the truth.

"Max misses you," is all Herc can finally say and Chuck grins, all teeth, no joy.

 

(Eyes closed and thirty steps away, Raleigh tries so very hard to pretend that he doesn't see a thing, doesn't hear a word.)

   
  
Yancy is always younger when Rals sees him. Maybe it's one of those coping mechanism things. Maybe it's childhood repression. Or maybe, it's just the fact that Rals can't really bear to remember Yancy as he used to be, flawed and human and so alive it makes his chest tighten just thinking about it.

Anyways.

"Hey kid, think fast." The frisbee is neon green and coming straight at Rals, a strange flash of colour against the grey edges that mark the outermost borders of this memory. In this one, Yancy is 18 and Rals still has shitty hand-eye coordination.

"You suck," Yancy is laughing when he pulls Rals off the ground. "You suck _so bad_ , it's not even funny."

"That's contradiction right there," Rals retorts and Yancy's hand is cold when he grasps it, too tight and too much, too little all at once.

"I'm laughing at your face, so no, not really contradictory at all."

Rals has dirt stains on his palms. On the knees of his jeans, the smell of crushed grass is almost sickeningly fresh.

"So you gonna get up or you just gonna lie there like a loser?"

Rals gets up. Above head, the sun is too bright to be real and the summer holds no heat.

 

(Herc watches them openly because looking away would mean seeing Chuck at the corner of his eye, and Herc can't have that. Not like this. Not yet.)

   
   
Stacker had taught her better than this, but Mako always knew he'd been indulgent with her. Would allow her this one thing, if he were still alive to know.

"Looks good." Stacker is standing at her doorway like he always does, waiting for an invitation to come in though he probably knows a wide open door is more than invitation enough. "I told you blue was your colour."

Mako can feel herself nod, something a bit like happiness lodged in her gut like a deadweight, and the highlights in her hair are more electric than she can remember them being in real life.

"It was this or red," she says, "I'm glad you like it."

Stilted. Like words in a play, except there's no one to watch but Stacker and he's smiling, so it can't be all that bad, right?

Wrong.

Mako feels her throat close up, reality warring with what-has-been for the right words.

"Mako?"

"I'm fine, it's okay."

Wrong. Wrong and wrong again. The memory peels at the edges like it's melting in the heat and Mako wants to walk across the room, wants to stand on the tips of her toes and rest her head against Stacker's shoulder for just one second more, but that's not how she's going to let this go. Stacker taught her better. This much, she can do, at least.

Stacker isn't a ghost and Mako isn't the scared little girl she used to be.

 

("Hey," Rals whispers into her hair and Mako shakes, weak for first time in a long while. "Hey. You did good.")

 

Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die.

**Author's Note:**

> I just have many Pacific Rim feelings and nowhere to put them okay ;A; Can you even use drifting like this? I HAVE NO IDEA D; Also, this was written in one sitting while contemplating lunch, so apologies for the lack of quality control.
> 
> Stanzas at start/end come from Mary Elizabeth Frye's [Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-stand-at-my-grave-and-weep/).


End file.
